


I got a lot of questions but I don't question anything

by orphan_account



Category: GP2 Series RPF
Genre: Closetedness, Drinking, Fucked Up Feelings, M/M, drawing hearts on mitch evans, secret feels, secret virginity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-03
Updated: 2016-08-04
Packaged: 2018-07-29 03:34:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7668535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set during the 2015 GP2 season. Artem has fallen for his teammate, everyone else has fallen for his lies. The two are going to have to be reconciled, eventually.</p><p>Featuring Emotional Dork Artem Markelov, Slutty Heart Of Gold Mitch Evans and the GP2 cast of thousands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [princessrosberg](https://archiveofourown.org/users/princessrosberg/gifts).



“I could actually get my whole fist in her, it was so fucking  _ hot, _ ” Richie has the whole group spellbound, helpfully balling his hand to give a lewdly recreative gesture, in case anyone misunderstood -“Seriously.”

Artem sneaks a glance around, as various awed noises and follow-up questions ( _ “Could you fuck her afterwards? What was it like? Did she squirt?”)  _ suck the noise back into the room. Sergey’s grinning wolfishly, clearly about to jump in with his own story, Alex has his head tipped back to exchange some -presumably pretty filthy- memory with Pierre, of all people. Carlos is smiling devilishly, his head against Dany’s chest, fingers winding through the belt-loops of Dany’s jeans and some kind of meaningful look passing between the two. 

Artem tries to ignore the flare of heartache. He’s jealous of Dany, of course: Formula 1 drive, in the fucking top team  _ and  _ he’s somehow swallowed down all that Bashkir awkwardness to land the guy they’ve all been crushing on since forever. It’s not fucking fair.

He’s brought out of his thoughts by Mitch grabbing his hand, “There is no way,” the Kiwi declares, “that anyone could take this.”

Mitch’s fingers are running over Artem’s palm, up the back of his knuckles, it’s making Artem’s heart pound faster - just the idea of Mitch sizing up his hand for fucking was bad enough but now there was no way he wasn’t going to get aske-

“Ah yeah, Markelov, you ever fist someone?” Sergey looks triumphant, so he must have a good card to play. This is just normal - it’s blokeish and stupid, sure but they drive cars really fast in circles for a living so what’s new?

It had started in the junior leagues, who’d snogged who, who’d touched a boob, who’d touched a dick and it had inevitably escalated. Artem was sure about 50% of what got boasted about hadn’t even happened. At least, he fucking hoped so because he was more than making up the ‘fictional’ ratio.

But this is easy, now; he’s been doing it for years. When they were all 15 and people started getting sex, when they got old enough to be doing more, it had just been easier to blend in with a lie - and who was gonna call him on what happened in Moscow? He’d figured it’d all happen eventually, he might as well save himself some ribbing in the process. 

And there’d been not liking girls and not being as able to admit that as some people, because he didn’t have some hot Spaniard jumping his bones every spare fucking second of the day. ‘Eventually’ seemed to be stretching on a lot, for him.

He’s not going to fucking announce that to Sergey, though. And he’s got so much practice with the lie.

Artem rips his eyes away from looking at Mitch’s hands on his, knows his voice will be steady, the grin perfectly roguish, knowing he’s  _ not  _ going to say  _ “Oh yeah, my favourite Fall Out Boy song, ‘I’ve Got More Tattoos Than Dates And I Spend A Lot Of Time Worrying No One’s Ever Gonna Fuck Me,”  _ even as his brain helpfully supplies it for some internal screaming.

Instead, his voice is rough, he sounds cocky, in his element “Have you heard of double anal?”

Mitch actually gasps and elbows him in the ribs, laughing and the room descends into chatter again, Artem’s heart leaping as the Kiwi cuddles up to him, flicking Artem in the chest whilst he admonishes him, “You’re a fucking sex god, I swear.” 

Mitch stays close, lazily drawing patterns on Artem’s inner arm and over his tattoo, laughing gently. And if Artem doesn’t move too much, his teammate might not even spot the achingly hard boner he’s had for at least the last fifteen minutes of  _ teasing  _ and Artem might be able to get back into the shower and wank himself pathetically blind.

This is fine.

\-----

Mitch has fallen asleep against him on the plane, neck cushion rubbing irritatingly against Artem’s ear but he can’t bring himself to wake his teammate. At least when Mitch is unconcious he’s not likely to notice how much Artem enjoys him invading his personal space. 

Artem  _ needs  _ Mitch not to know he’s got an almighty fucking crush on him. Everyone does - Artem’s clearly got fucking popular taste, for a driver, if years spent pining after Carlos and the parade of hands down Evans’ pants are anything to go by. 

But as far as Mitch knows, Artem is straight. It’s better to have the lie - even if he does sometimes guiltily wonder if it’s what makes Mitch so comfortable curling up on him. They’re close enough, together enough, that it’s got difficult to maintain but it’s not like there’s  _ anywhere  _ Artem lets it slip, so.

The press rumours about him and Alyona had been useful - he’d been careful not to deny it, apart from the weird pregnancy one. A few of the guys still thought he was dating her in secret, ribbed him about being a toyboy with a touch of jealousy in their voices.

But now he had an armful of sleepy Kiwi, Mitch’s fingers grabbing unconsciously at Artem’s t-shirt. He’s got horribly accustomed to the solo mile high club membership of quick and dirty pressure relief in a plane bathroom, on longhaul flights but this is only to Belgium, he’s going to have to last it out even as Mitch’s fingers somehow find every sensitive spot on his waist.

An engineer shoots them a slightly strange look and Artem closes his eyes, pretends to be asleep as well. It’s important to be well-rested before a race.

Except this is a horrible error - now he’s completely focussed on the line of warmth that is Mitch slumped against him, plane aircon cooling their skin everywhere it isn’t pressed together. Mitch is a wriggly sleeper and he keeps nuzzling closer, knocking the pillow away into Artem’s lap so Mitch’s cheek is warm against his shoulder, messy hair grazing against Artem’s lips.

Normally he has better control, he swears but it’s been eighteen months of too-close teammate cuddling and Artem  _ wants  _ so much, wants to just confess it all to Mitch, has fantasised so often about the Kiwi pushing him onto a bed, growling that he’ll make up for all Artem’s lost time, make it good for him, do  _ everything  _ with him. 

That’s not happening. But sometimes he wants to take a little more than he should. Artem shifts slightly, so that he’s facing more towards Mitch, so their legs press together, Mitch nuzzling even closer to almost be leaning on Artem’s chest, his breath hot across Artem’s collarbone. 

Artem tries not to hyperventilate, keep his breathing even and sleepy even as his heart speeds up so much he’s  _ sure  _ Mitch must be able to feel his pulse racing, pressed against his neck. 

Artem’s been getting a little bit bolder about touching Mitch, this season. About sitting close to him, wrestling and rough-hugging him. But this is more like a lover’s embrace, Mitch’s fingers curled up in Artem’s clothes, one of his his hands against the soft hair at the base of Mitch’s neck. 

Mitch wriggles in his sleep again, grabbing at Artem’s arm and half-hugging it, so Artem’s forced to drape it around the smaller man and suddenly  _ he’s got Mitch in his arms _ . It’s not even a fraction of what Artem wants to do with Mitch but it feels so  _ natural  _ and intimate and he’s  _ totally, completely fucked.  _

\--------

Racing is a welcome distraction. Or well, the reason why they’re here at all so Artem better fucking enjoy it - and he really, really does. He’s wondered before if he’d just be totally straight and normal and sorted if he didn’t have this base psychological need to drive, to compete, to race against his crushes. 

It’s a difficult practice, he’s not sure he even really  _ likes  _ Spa per se. Until it’s the race and he’s never loved a track more, never felt like he knows what he’s doing more. He tries to stop himself shaking on the podium, tries to be chill with the guys in the cool-down room, tries to not cry or fall over or something because he’s never been so happy. 

Until Mitch grabs him, straight off the podium and hugs him so closely. Mitch’s head is pressed against his shoulder, his arms are round Artem’s waist and back and all Artem can do is hug him back, pull them closer together, their bodies completely pressed against each other. This is better than the flight, even, his arms full of Mitch, their sweat smearing on each other, Mitch’s overalls soaking up the champagne from Artem’s.

Artem can feel every muscle across Mitch’s stomach, pressed against his own. Their thighs are pushing against each other, Mitch almost humping him in a sort of excited dance and it’s more than Artem can take. He buries his face in Mitch’s hair to try and stop himself kissing the Kiwi - it’s too hot and too close and then Mitch shifts and he nearly fucking  _ dies. _

Artem’s been hard since they made contact, he’s given up on even trying to stop it when it comes to Mitch. But now their crotches are flat up against each other and Artem can  _ feel  _ Mitch is hard against his leg, something tantalisingly close to friction rubbing the head of Mitch’s cock against the base of his, their height difference not quite putting the shafts together.

He’s holding his breath, face still pressed into Mitch’s hair, until Mitch undeniably  _ rocks up  _ against him and it’s too much, forcing out a broken moan. 

Mitch moves his head, forces Artem to look him in the eye and grinds against him, forcing Artem’s eyes closed, dragging another moan out, “We should celebrate.”

Artem’s too far gone to know what Mitch is talking about, for a second. Then, “We can’t drink, Mitch, it’s the sprint race tomorrow,” his eyes are still closed, like if he opens them Mitch might stop, this might go back to just be a manly teammate hug.

“Not drinking,  _ celebrating, _ ” Mitch grinds again and Artem’s eyes fly open to see his teammate’s dark with something, a smile dripping with intention. 

Over Mitch’s shoulder, Artem sees Sergey approaching. He wants to grab Mitch up, carry him away, kiss him everywhere. He can’t.

Artem’s never hated himself more than when he can’t even look at Mitch as he unwraps his arms, peels their bodies apart, says “I’m straight.”

\--------

He actually leaves a tip for the hotel cleaning staff on the Sunday, when he sees the state of his bed.

He’d spent the evening celebrating his win by “going over data,” the universal codeword for crying in bed, eating room service and coming about ten times over his sheets, pathetically hugging the duvet to himself as though it could morph into Mitch. It’s not quite a normal podium celebration.

Artem presses himself against the tiles of the shower, warm from the water and it’s almost,  _ almost  _ enough to take him back to that second, to Mitch’s cock against his, Mitch’s chest pressed against him, Mitch’s lips  _ so close.  _

And he can  _ almost  _ imagine that he could’ve taken the chance, that he could’ve pushed closer, pressed their lips together, felt Mitch’s tongue against his, Mitch’s hands gripping his shoulders as they ground closer, let Sergey fucking watch as Artem got everything he wanted. Then taken Mitch’s hand and dragged him back to a room, got on his knees for the Kiwi, been allowed to suck his cock, begged Mitch to fuck him. 

The idea of Mitch fucking into him, coming because of Artem’s body, pushes him over the edge. His spunk is easily washed away as he strokes himself through it, unlike the idea of  of Mitch  _ wanting  _ him back, which haunts the rest of his fucking day. 

\-----

There’s no avoiding the celebrations this time - GP2 in an ebullient mood, the team fucking  _ buoyant  _ from a double podium weekend. Mitch is delighted, any awkwardness or hurt from the previous day long gone as he crawls repeatedly into Artem’s lap, stroking Artem’s face as he offers him another lurid-coloured shot. 

Artem’s powerless to resist. He can barely deny Mitch anything sober and he’s drunk as  _ fuck  _ and so grateful that Mitch will still come to him, still straddle his thighs, eyes bright and blown and stare him down whilst bellowing the lyrics to some pop song Artem doesn’t recognise. 

The engineers are giving them slightly odd looks again but it’s not like Mitch isn’t like this with  _ everyone,  _ as much as that breaks Artem’s heart. He knows it’s his fault but if Mitch goes home with Alex or Pierre, he’s going to break into tiny pieces, so he clings to the Kiwi all night, drinking anything handed him like it’ll help him keep position.

He’s stumbling back from the bathroom, well aware he’s past fuzzy-around-the-edges to full-blown-fucked-up, when Dany stops him. Kvyat grabs his shirt and for a second Artem thinks he’s going to fight him - although he can’t fucking imagine what about - before realising Dany’s just trying to hold him up, propping Artem against a bannister. 

“It’s a bit fucking much that you’re fucking him, after all the shit you gave us,” ok fuck, maybe Dany  _ is  _ going to fight him. Shit. He’s pretty sure he will lose, no matter how skinny Kvyat is - you don’t fight your way into the top flight without being made of sterner stuff than Artem’s falling-down-drunk ass.

“I’m not fucking hi-” Artem realises he’s practically wailing, in as much as the Russian language accommodates it. Also that that wasn’t the point of what Dany said, “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not…” Dany trails off, “I’m not trying to be mean. It will be difficult. You can probably get away with it, with him but it’ll still be shitty. Watch out in Sochi.”

“I’m not fucking him,” he tries again, sounding pathetic even over the pounding music.

Dany grimaces at him, “You look at him like you’ve written poetry about him,” trust fucking Kvyat to romanticise Artem’s personal crisis, “Be careful.”

And then Dany’s gone and the room is spinning in front of Artem.  _ Shit.  _ This is all so, so bad. He’d been so good at hiding it and he’s  _ fucked it  _ and he’s gonna be really sick in a second.

\------

There’s a blur. And some of the blur is pavement and his stomach is emptying itself onto it and he’s gonna fall over.

\-----

There’s another blur and he’s retching still and he thinks he’s probably crying and he feels the shittest he’s ever felt in his life and hears himself choke “Miiitch,” oh  _ god, _ this is the most embarrassing thing he’s ever fucking done he’s going to move to Siberia and get a new name.

\------

“Yeah, no, he’s definitely not gonna be more sick, he’s alright, just take us there,” there are arms around him and he’s being bundled into a car, a soothing hand stroking through his hair as Artem clings desperately to the body he’s wrapped himself around. 

He feels disgusting, his head is pounding and he feels like he’s been kicked in his empty stomach., “Mitch?”

“I’m here dude, it’s ok, you’re ok,” oh  _ fuck. _ Artem makes an undignified sobbing noise and clings closer, far too broken to resist this, even if Mitch can probably never  _ look  _ at him again. Fuck.

Mitch carries on murmuring reassuring things to him as he tries not to let the saliva rise, tries to ignore the movement of the taxi. Mitch’s hand is rubbing his back, stroking his hair as Artem mumbles “Mm rlly srry” into the fabric of Mitch’s shirt.  _ Fuck.  _

\-----

He tunes in again to Mitch stripping his clothes off -  _ what.  _

“Come on dude, you need a shower, you’re pretty disgusting,” Mitch is holding him close still, as he peels Artem’s shirt off, pushes down his jeans and underwear and somehow manages the stumbling disaster that is trying to get his feet out without dropping him. 

The water is warm and Mitch is being gentle with him, washing him. It’s too much for Artem’s heart to take and he adds ‘crying while naked’ to his list of crimes against his teammate for the evening, blindly grabbing at Mitch to sob on his shoulder as the other man valiantly continues his attempts to clean him.

“Artem, dude, come on, it’s ok - the green Aftershock is always a bad idea,” Mitch shuts off the water and there’s no  _ way  _ Artem can unpeel himself from the Kiwi, letting him walk him back into the bedroom, wrap him in a towel.

“Come on, then, had to get a sex god in my bed somehow,” Artem can’t, he  _ mustn’t  _ but he can’t stop himself crawling onto the duvet, curling up in a ball as he chokes out everything he shouldn’t.

“Mm a virgin, not a sex god,” Mitch’s hand, which had crept up his side to try to encourage him under the covers, stills. “I’ve nev- I never. Want so much.”

Mitch curls up round him, tugging the duvet out from under Artem and over both of them, “You talk some total fucking shit when you’re drunk, Markelov.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea how all this has happened in 24 hours. I blame princessrosberg. 
> 
> Here is the porn bit.

It’s awkward. Artem has limited, fragmentary memory of exactly how he got to be naked and slightly damp in Mitch’s bed, except that he’s absolutely certain it’s not for any of the reasons he’d like it to be.

Mitch hugged him in the morning, said he was a “fucking hilarious drunk” and that he’d never _seen_ such multicoloured vomit, describing it in enough detail Artem had to go and stand in the bathroom for a bit until he was _sure_ there wasn’t going to be a replay. Mitch had ordered them breakfast, made him sit with him watching shit Belgian music telly whilst Artem wanted to die of shame for having Mitch look after him and also for Mitch to never stop looking after him.

When they actually needed to check out, Artem needing to head to his room and shove his shit in a case, Mitch had shoved him playfully, then drawn him into a tight hug, “You were pretty fucking upset last night mate, you know you can talk to me, right?”

Artem had suppressed the hysterical scream-laughter, the howled “ _Not about this!”_ He’d mumbled some thanks and apologies again, stumbled out of Mitch’s room and tried to ignore that his heart felt possibly even worse than his head.

And now they’re in Italy and it’s awkward. Because Mitch keeps being the same old Mitch, far too snuggly and touchy and Artem feels like he’s switching between emotionally dead and physically dying, depending on his proximity to his teammate.

They’re at a drivers’ meeting and Mitch is sitting on the chair behind Artem’s. Except because he’s Mitch he’s turned the chair round so he can straddle it and shoved it right up to the back of Artem’s, so it’s more accurate to say he’s sitting between Mitch’s legs.

It’s the first circle of hell, he’s sure. He’s dying of such really nice torment, Mitch’s knee warm against his outer thigh, the pressure of Mitch’s chair against his back close to an embrace. He really needs to stop thinking about how it’s almost an echo of waking up with Mitch curled around him, the smaller man clinging to him like a koala, one of his hands over Artem’s heart.

After, they’re heading down to the garage and Mitch bumps his shoulder affectionately, ruffles Artem’s hair, tries to get him into a scrappy wrestling match but Artem’s heart isn’t in it, feeling cripplingly self-conscious and embarrassed.

He’s still grateful when Mitch props an arm on Artem’s shoulder, jauntily leans against him whilst they’re talking to the engineers. Overwhelmed with panic and depression but nonetheless, grateful for the reassuring contact.

At least the crippling sadness he’s started feeling about Mitch is keeping the instant boners at bay. So now he can cry without wanking, although admittedly not vice versa.

\-------

They’re all hanging out after Quali, ribbing each other and gossiping endlessly about Formula 1 prospects. Stoffel’s going up, they know and it’s got everyone overexcited.

“Artem’s a threat, saw him get roughed up by Kvyat at the club,” Ollie’s laughing but it’s slightly fake - at this stage in the season, anyone so much as looking at an F1 driver is enough to generate rumors. And Artem’s sort-of sorry about this but he’s going to throw Dany under the bus to save himself.

“Oh nah, he doesn’t like the way Carlos looks at me,” Artem preens slightly, ignoring his internal desire to cringe because what are all these core muscles he spends so long in the gym for, otherwise? “I told him not to worry- I’ve got my hands full scheduling girls into threesomes for Sochi.”

They’re all delighted by this tidbit - the idea that Artem could be unnerving an F1 driver, disrupting an F1 relationship, far better than if he’d just claimed Red Bull were talking to him. He can feel eyes on him, knows it’s Mitch, knows it’s some Disney-eyed thoughtful expression that will crack him apart if he looks round.

Sergey claps him on the back, hard and Artem nearly wobbles a bit, not prepared for physical assault in addition to emotional hell, “You share some of those girls with me, dude - you find the filthiest bitches.”

Artem feels like screaming “ _Yes, have you fucking seen Mitch? He’ll cuddle you even after you’ve thrown up on him_ ,” but he’s still got a few shreds of self-control he’s clinging to.

“They’ll have to be pretty fucking filthy to be up for it with you, Sirotkin,” Artem deliberately looms a bit and Sergey looks slightly ready to fight, all of them way too riled up by career possibilities and paranoia and it’s _fucking ridiculous_ is what this all is.

He feels a hand on the small of his back,”C’mon mate, need you focussed on trying to race me.”

Mitch winds his arms round Artem’s waist from behind and there are a few _“oooh, Artem’s wife’s here”_ or _“Mitch doesn’t want his boyfriend fighting”_ and Artem desperately tries to stop himself leaning back into the Kiwi, letting himself enjoy the reassurance.

“He’s saving the dirtiest ones just in case any of them’ll fuck _me,_ ” Mitch laughs and the tension’s broken, Sergey off to laugh about something with Richie, Stoffel and Alex’s intense staring contest over Pierre’s head suddenly the focus for a roasting.

Mitch’s arms stay around Artem, though and he can’t help giving in a bit, unable to take the strain of trying to force himself not to indulge in his teammate rubbing circles over his left hipbone, through the fabric of his team shirt. Mitch is way too short to tuck his head on Artem’s shoulder but he can feel Mitch’s cheek pressed against his back and it’s so good, it’s everything he _really_ wants and can’t have.

\-----

Mitch bounces off the podium to him for the second time that weekend, flings his arms around Artem and backs him into the garage. There’ve been hugs with _everyone_ \- Artem kind of knows and fully dreads that he’s not getting out of going out again tonight and he’s already had a glass of something fizzy and is feeling a bit weird. He’s a disgrace to his nationality.

But he’s got arms full of champagne-and-sweat-soaked Mitch Evans and maybe the fizzy whatever was enough to stop him thinking too hard about that, because Artem’s looking deep into Mitch’s eyes, with Mitch’s arms round his neck and they’re one power ballad and a wind machine away from his wildest fantasies.

Mitch cocks his head on one side, drags Artem further back into the garage and he can tell Mitch is a bit drunk - podium champagne always goes straight to your dehydrated, adrenalised head.

Mitch grabs him up, hands on Artem’s upper arms, so he’s forced to put his hands on Mitch or leave them awkwardly waving like some particularly tragic jazz hands mime act. His teammate looks softly happy, not the ebullient shouting of the first post-podium burst, “Can I ask you something?”

Artem thinks he should say no but he’s clinically incapable of saying no to a mussed-up, sweaty Mitch who’s gazing at him affectionately, “Sure.”

“Look mate - you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. But you said some shit when you were drunk and - have you _actually_ never fucked anyone?”

Artem stares at him, absolute panic rising through his body. _Fuck_ he had no idea he’d said that. Mitch looks so sincere and caring and he’s reached up a hand to stroke Artem’s face, pressing them together again, Artem’s back hitting a storage unit.

Mitch carries on, “Because it’s actually pretty normal not to want to, you don’t have to feel weird about it.”

Artem hears himself _whimper,_ which was surely the only way he could make this all more dramatically pathetic and he closes his eyes, which is a mistake because it seems to lead to his mouth opening and-

“I _really_ want to. And I haven’t and it’s so long and I can’t be gay _please don’t tell anyone._ ”

He feels like his spine’s turned into a rod of frozen steel, his limbs frozen and his heart is pounding so fast he’s pretty sure he’s not far off passing out, which turns into ‘probably actually having a cardiac arrest’ when some emotion very close to pain blooms across his chest as soft lips meet his.

Mitch tastes of champagne and dirt and engine fumes and helmet-stale water, their lips just meeting at first, mouthing gently at each other and Artem could never resist this, even whilst he feels like he may actually be quite seriously physically dying. Mitch pushes closer, twines his arms round Artem’s neck, pulls Artem further down towards him and _pulls his hair._ Artem’s amazed he stays on his feet, even if it is mostly the smaller man holding him up.

Mitch makes an extremely appreciative sound when his tongue enters Artem’s mouth, their bodies completely pressed together. It’s enough that Artem could die there, could just let whatever’s going on in his cardiovascular system take over and be convinced he’d led a full life, if he could get _that_ sort of noise out of Mitch Evans.

But then Mitch is pulling back and he hears himself whimper again, opening his eyes to stare at Mitch like he might be a figment of Artem’s imagination. Oh god - maybe this isn’t real, maybe he had some really high-speed crash and this is all stuff he’s dreaming.

“I’d definitely fuck you,” Mitch drags a hand down Artem’s chest, over the now-slightly-soggy t-shirt he’d changed into after the race. It’s the most erotic thing that’s ever happened to him (“ _which is pretty pathetic, really”_ his brain helpfully commentates) and he can’t stop staring at Mitch’s tanned hand, spread over his chest, like he’s claiming Artem.

It drags a really broken moan out of him that Mitch kisses away, capturing his mouth again and this is so close to some of Artem’s most detailed fantasies that he can’t believe it’s actually happening. He wants to drop to his knees, have Mitch fuck his mouth and tell him he’s a good boy for confessing, or a filthy whore for lying so long or _anything._

He takes the plunge, clumsily - he’s going to be bruised as fuck tomorrow but he’s on his knees with Mitch looking down at him in total wonder as he paws at his teammate’s thermals and is it more fucked up that they’re doing this at all or that Artem kind of wants Mitch to slap him?

He doesn’t find out. Because someone’s calling out that Mitch needs to come for a photoshoot - of course - and they really can’t be found like this. Mitch’s eyes go wide, he strokes Artem’s hair ruefully, an affectionate caress to his cheek and murmurs “Later, yeah?”

And then he’s gone and Artem decides there’s no real point _not_ having a pathetic wank in the back of the garage, given all the other aspects of his life he’s fucking up currently.

\------

This time it’s Mitch who’s a state. Which isn’t really surprising, given he’d been fairly clearly drunk by midday and Artem’s pretty sure he’s eaten nothing more exciting than a protein shake since.

Carlos is giggling as he hands the Kiwi over to Artem, “And he says _I_ can’t drink!” It’s affectionate and Carlos is clearly looking out for Mitch - Artem feels a stab of crippling guilt about his lie a few days ago but it’s buried under more complex shotgun blasts to the chest as he bundles his near-unconscious teammate against himself.

“C’mon Mitch,” he tries to encourage the smaller man to move, instead of just draping himself on Artem and drooling slightly against his shirt. Carlos laughs again, claps Artem on the shoulder.

“You are cute, I’m glad he has you,” and Artem wants to scream that he’s got no idea _what_ he’s got, other than ‘a lot of issues’ and Mitch had ignored him nearly all night and he’s feeling _horribly_ low, like he’s dropped down a well from the extra-orbital high of earlier.

Instead he blurts out “We’re not fucking” and earns himself another knowing laugh from Carlos.

“Take him home - he needs water, probably,” and yes, thank you, Artem is actually quite intimately aware of how hangovers work.

Artem grunts at him and then is forced to accept Carlos’ help to actually wrangle Mitch out of the club and onto the pavement to try and flag down a taxi.

“Youuu smell nice,” is the only thing Mitch manages to slur, hiccuping slightly against Artem, before they convince a cab driver that they’ll pay double if anyone throws up, Carlos waving them off.

It’s quiet in the car and Mitch snuggles up to him, sleeping or passing out or whatever with his head in the crook of Artem’s neck. Artem lets himself card his fingers through Mitch’s hair, stroke his back, pretend for the few minutes they’re in the cab that he’s his boyfriend and they’re on holiday, not working and that they’ll spend tomorrow lazy fucking, wrapped up in each other.

Artem’s not 100% sure what getting fucked would feel like - he guesses it hurts a bit, at least at first but he wants it, wants Mitch to push him down and - fuck, he’s watched way too much porn, if he’s fantasising about this but he wants Mitch to come inside him, be his usual cocky self while he’s _ruining_ Artem and making him beg to be allowed to come. And then cuddle him.

It’s not quite the sort of Sadeian perversity Artem feels like he should be into but he just _wants_ \- and wants to be wanted. He’s sure his crush has come out of how good Mitch is at reassuring him, calming him down, making him feel at ease even as he panics about that.

Mitch makes a sleepy noise, hiccuping again as they pull up to the hotel. He’s a bit more awake, managing to stand largely unaided as Artem pays for the cab and steers him through the door, getting a couple of bottles of water from reception on their way to the lifts.

Mitch’s sudden burst of competent movement gets them all the way to his hotel room door, then he suddenly slumps against Artem again whilst he’s looking through Mitch’s pockets for a room key.

“Dude, this is unhelpful,” Artem sighs, realising he’s now just rifling through an unconscious man’s trousers in a hotel hallway, shoulders Mitch and drags him across the corridor to his own room.

He possibly ought to return the shower favour Mitch did for him but he’s genuinely scared of what the Kiwi would think if he woke up and found Artem undressing him. So he just gets Mitch to the bed, tries to make sure he’s in as comfortable and least-likely-to-choke-on-vomit position as possible and puts one of the bottles of water on the bedside table next to him.

He flops himself down on the sofa, undressing awkwardly before balling himself up in an uncomfortable fetal position. He wants to go over to the bed, get Mitch to cuddle him but it feels way too wrong Mitch wouldn't even know who he was.

He's shivering a bit under the aircon, though, grabs the weird coverlet thing as a makeshift duvet and a pillow to hug.

He falls asleep to the sound of Mitch’s sleepy breathing.

\-------

“Wow, I feel like _shiiit.”_

Artem jerks awake, knocks his head on the arm of the settee and hates life for a few seconds, until his eyes focus. Mitch is half sitting, gulping thirstily at the bottle of water, some of it running down his chin and neck.

“Whoa. Shit. What happened?” Mitch looks down at himself “Fuck I'm a mess.”

He really is, shirt messed up and jeans somehow half shunted down from wriggling in his sleep. It's ridiculously sexy, the muscles over his hips just visible. Artem wants to crawl over and beg him for… anything. Everything.

“Nothing happened - we didn't…” Artem sits up, running a hand through his hair and suddenly very conscious of the fact he's only wearing his boxers, as the stupid coverlet thing snakes off his lap to pool on the floor. “You were pretty wasted, so Carlos said I should take you home. I couldn't find your keys so put you here, sorry.”

Mitch takes another look around the room, like he's only just realised he's not in his, “Oh dude, did you kick yourself out of your _own bed_ for me? You're my hero.”

Mitch swigs more water, smiling genuinely at Artem, “C’mere, I could use a hug.”

Artem doesn't move immediately, frozen by his own awkwardness. But Mitch starts doing a dramatic fainting act, like he's a 17th century noblewoman, and demanding his hero comes to attend his needs.

When he tentatively crawls onto the bed he's immediately tackled, in a movement far too fluid for someone in Mitch’s state. He ends up pinned under the Kiwi somehow and he can't hold back a groan as Mitch settles to half-lie on top of him, one leg and arm flung over Artem.

“Genuinely thanks, man. I know I'm a handful when I get like that.” Mitch strokes Artem's chest appreciatively.

Artem can barely speak. Mitch smells of ethanol and is clearly in a pretty disgusting state but he's _in Artem’s bed,_ cuddling up to him. _Asking_ him for cuddles. He's so overwhelmed by everything he wants to say, wants to ask, that he can't speak, just runs his fingers over Mitch’s arm, soothing.

Mitch squirms around, making Artem almost involuntarily move in response. They somehow shift until Mitch’s hips are pressed against Artem’s and _oh._

Mitch looks sheepish, “Sorry, happens when I'm hungover.”

Artem manages to choke out “Don't be sorry” and his hands are making a dive for Mitch’s jeans when his teammate writhes again, just out of Artem’s grasp.

“Please tell me it's not too late to order room service breakfast? I need a fucking _monstrous_ amount of Hollandaise.”

\-------

Obviously, Artem’s excited about his home Grand Prix. Even if Sochi is kind of nowhere near his home and half the people don't even speak Russian and he's dimly aware of some recent political issues that he's desperately trying not to find  out too much about because he's pretty sure there's nothing he can do about it.

Besides, he has political issues of his own. Even the usually less cautious drivers are on high alert - it reminds him of Bahrain but he didn't keep getting wheeled out for publicity there.

Not that any of this has had the slightest effect on Mitch, of course. The Kiwi is currently shirtlessly sunning himself on the roof of their hotel, while Artem tries not to sweat excessively. Fuck, it’s hot.

Mitch is sipping at some water that probably had ice in awhile ago and lazily scratching his leg, “I thought it’d be cold.”

Artem fixes him with a look that he hopes suggests he’s considering getting him psychologically assessed, “ _Why?”_

His teammate shrugs, “You know, Russia.”

Artem glares at him, “It’s summer, on the Black Sea. You idiot.”

Mitch shrugs again, laughing at him, “What the fuck would I know? It’s always been cold when we’ve been here before.”

“In _Moscow,_ ” it’s pretty warm there right now but Artem can’t be bothered to explain, “I don’t come to your country and ask where the sheep are.”

Mitch laughs uproariously, throwing his head back, “Yeah you really don’t need to ask that - anyway, you’ve never been. Have to keep myself warm there, without you.”

“ _Mitch,”_ he hisses, “ _you fucking can’t,_ not here. Not - fuck,” Artem wrestles down the lump that’s threatening to form in his throat. He desperately wants to talk to Mitch about it, about _them._ But this is the worst place for anything.

“Hey, it’s ok,” Mitch stops laughing, glances round the rooftop - they’re alone but it’s massively too public for Artem to try and stutter through what he wants to say, English feeling fat on his tongue after slipping between languages all day.

He hopes it’s not quite as obvious as it feels that he’s about 40 seconds off crying. Somehow the whole circus of being the toast of the town and a national hero has only emphasised how shitty he feels and how much he’s built up a horrible, self-defeating cage for himself.

“Can we talk about it? _Not now_ ,” He’s speaking too fast and slightly higher pitched than normal.

Mitch looks confused, like he’s not sure what “it” is and Artem kind of can’t blame him because that’s _exactly the fucking problem._ He looks away, unable to deal with Mitch looking at him with that gentle, questioning expression like sure, he’ll totally talk to Artem about whatever the thing that’s bothering him is, Mitch isn’t having a massive personal crisis at the worst possible time. No problems.

Two more races, that’s all he needed to have held on. And then Mitch would have been elsewhere and Artem could die in peace. Except that’s _even worse,_ the idea that he’s losing Mitch. They’d had the team meeting last week, announced his new teammate whilst Artem resisted the urge to shout _“Who the fuck cares?”_ and “ _Why are you taking everything good away from me?”_

“Sure, mate.” Mitch seems to try to go back to sunning himself, taking a long sip of probably-pretty-tepid water as he settles back.

Artem’s meant to be going over some race notes but his eyes aren’t focussing on the page. He can’t believe he’s only got three weekends left, all in the worst possible places for it, to sort things out with Mitch. Whatever ‘things’ are.

It’s not like they’re in a bad place, they’re hanging out together, they’ll totally still be friends next season but Artem knows the opportunity for their particular type of closeness is slipping through his fingers.

He doesn’t know exactly what he wants by this point - _something._ Mitch is the first person he’s trusted enough to get close enough to whatever their thing is and he doesn’t know if he can deal with the heartache of losing the fingertip-cling ledge of whatever it is he’s grasping at here.

“It’s safe in our rooms, right?” Mitch is looking at him really intensely, slightly like the look he gets just before a race.

Artem swallows, “I think so?”

“Ok, well. Would you like to go over that data in my room?” Mitch seemingly can’t resist wiggling an eyebrow but his tone is even, just in case there are any bugs on the rooftop. Which is probably too paranoid but Artem’s been having a pretty fucking anxiety-inducing time of things.

\-------

They get into the lift and down the corridor pretty casually, although Artem’s so aware of how he’s moving that he’s unable to walk in a normal fashion, like he’s forgotten how his feet work.

By the time they get to Mitch’s door he can feel his hands shaking very slightly. Which is ridiculous, he’s at peak physical fucking fitness and this is just _feelings_ how is it knocking him out more than taking a corner at 200kph.

He realises Mitch is staring at him, expecting him to go through the now-open door. Right. Yes. Moving. Artem manages to get about a metre inside before he hears the click of the lock and suddenly has a very warm, very still-shirtless Mitch against his back.

“Possibly stop thinking?” It’s tempting, it’s _really_ tempting but Artem doesn’t think he _can_ and he’s going to have a panic attack if they don’t actually talk this through, as much as he doesn’t want to.

“I... can we just talk?” He swallows, feeling Mitch’s hands move over his stomach muscles, smoothing his t-shirt down over his hips.

“Mmm. On the bed.” _Fuck_ it’s everything he wants. But he _needs_ to have this conversation.

Mitch steers him over to the bed, shoves him over onto it and then does his koala act again, pinning Artem in place with one muscular thigh, “Dude, I don’t give a shit if you’ve never done this before.”

It’s not quite how he’d ever imagined this playing out. In all his fantasies, they’d somehow magically navigated the confusion and awkwardness and skipped straight to the good bit.

“I… I’m really fucked up.” Great chat-up line, Markelov, that’ll go down in history as one of the romantic epics.

Mitch huffs at him, “It’s not you - well, you are, you’re the most epicly fucked-up drunk I’ve ever seen. But you’re also so gay you fucking vomit rainbows,” Artem can feel Mitch nuzzling the back of his neck and it’s easier that they’re not facing each other, that he’s enveloped by Mitch.

“I can normally smell queer a mile off, you must’ve had spy training,” Mitch’s hand is stroking over his right arm, down his waist, calming and soothing, “That fucking long trying not to fancy you cus I don’t torment myself with straight boys.”

Artem feels so weird - simultaneously so, so happy and sick with nerves, his whole body wired to the point of shaking, “I don’t know what to do.”

Mitch shushes him, “This is good?” Artem nods, hopes Mitch can feel it. His head is pillowed on Mitch’s bicep, which is an impressively comfortable spot, the way Mitch’s forearm is curled round him feeling protective, like he’s enclosing Artem away from the rest of the world. Mitch’s right hand is still stroking over his side and waist, stretching lower to rub over Artem’s hip through his sweatpants.

“It’s better naked.” Mitch’s voice is breathy, hot, right by Artem’s ear. He’s so close he can feel Mitch’s breath ruffling his hair, Mitch’s lips nipping at his ear and neck, “If you want to.”

“Mmn… _fuck,_ please,” he doesn’t even recognise his own voice. He’s never had someone else bring him this far, someone deliberately try to turn him on. At least, not successfully - there had been a few girls who’d given it a good go to not great effect.

Mitch rearranges them, so he’s straddling Artem, lifting the hem of his shirt whilst staring him solemnly in the eye, “We don’t do anything you don’t want to, ok? Just tell me to stop and it’s fine.”

Artem nods again, his throat feeling too tight to speak, almost tearful as he pulls his shirt over his head and looks up to see Mitch visually _eating_ him. “Fuck, you are so hot.”

Mitch shuffles backwards, presses kisses against Artem’s stomach, heading downwards until he hits the waistband of his sweatpants. And then somehow bites on that and drags on Artem’s pants and boxers _with his teeth._ It’s the most mindblowingly pornographic thing Artem’s ever seen, Mitch looking up at him with wickedly dark, glittering eyes as Artem automatically bucks his hips to let him pull them off, his trainers slipping off easily with them.

“Mitch,” he can’t stop himself whining, “I need…” Mitch is too far away, standing off the bed to tear off his own shorts and trainers and of course the fucker wasn’t wearing any underwear.

“Shh, I’m here,” Mitch looks _almost_ slightly confused by his own reaction, like he’s not quite used to whatever’s going on. But his hand is stroking through Artem’s hair, straddling him again, “Hey, you can touch me if you want.”

Artem really, really does - he puts his hands on Mitch’s thighs, thumbs rubbing circles. It’s not much but it makes the Kiwi hum happily, stroking Artem’s face as he declares “I’m going to kiss you, ok?”

He looks in Artem’s eyes for permission, moves in when he seems satisfied - there’s possibly never been anything Artem’s wanted more in his life, so he’s fairly sure it’s showing in his face. Mitch kisses him softly, both of their stubble grazing very slightly. It’s tender and sweet and everything Artem wishes he didn’t want quite so much but will absolutely die happy for being given.

Mitch’s tongue slips into his mouth and it’s so slow, so passionate that he doesn’t notice Mitch’s fingers carding into his hair until he suddenly pulls it and Artem makes the most undignified noise of _want_ he’s ever heard, outside porn.

“Holy shit,” Mitch’s voice is full of wonder, “you really fucking want it.” Mitch tugs on Artem’s hair again, bites at his ear and Artem can’t stop the keening noises falling from him. Someone’s - fucking _finally -_ going to fuck him and it’s Mitch and it’s in exactly the way he wants because of course Mitch knows that.

Mitch goes quiet for a minute, then tugs on his hair again “Look at me.”

His face is open, happy but sincere - something much more playful than solemn but definitely not laughing, “I really need you to tell me if this goes too far, ok? I need you to say yes.”

Artem nods again, involuntarily pulling his own hair from where Mitch’s hand is in it, before realising that’s not what Mitch means, “Yes - I swear.”

Mitch smiles at him, looks uncertain for a fraction of a second and then kisses him again, as sweet and tender as before, “Good boy.”

Artem can’t help himself anymore, he completely wantonly moans, melting underneath Mitch’s hands, his own hands grasping at his teammate’s thighs. It’s fucking embarrassing, somewhere in the back of his mind but this is _exactly_ what he wants.

Mitch carries on kissing him, grinding down so that Artem’s dick is against his inner thigh and it’s pathetic how close to coming Artem feels - this is the most anyone’s ever touched him, which is fucking _sad,_ not least because he’s quietly really happy it’s Mitch. Not that he was _waiting_ per se and he’s never believed in the whole ‘saving yourself’ shit but this is just perfect.

“You’re so good,” Mitch is practically purring at him, clearly pleased with the way Artem comes undone even further with every touch, moans brokenly every time Mitch praises him. He feels so safe under Mitch, so _ready_ and if Mitch carries on stroking over his tattoos, telling him he’s beautiful, Artem’s pretty sure he could come off just this.

“We should do this properly,” Mitch says, rolling off Artem for a second, although still stroking him, like he understands Artem needs the contact, needs to be grounded to this, to the pleasure before he panics, “I just need to get myself ready, ok? Then I can ride you, show you how good it-”

“No- please, _please_ fuck me,” Artem can’t stop himself closing his eyes, whimpering. It’s not that he’s _not_ interested in Mitch riding his dick. It’s just that he’s needed Mitch inside him for about two years and if it doesn’t happen now he’s going to fucking expire in this bed.

Mitch pauses, “You’re sure?”

“ _Yes._ Please, Mitch.” He can’t look at him, hopes Mitch understands that begging for dick is a step too far for Artem’s current state but oh god he wants it.

“Ok - don’t let me hurt you, it’s kind of weird at first,” he strokes Artem’s hair, kisses him again, “Let me get the stuff.”

The thirty or so seconds Mitch is away from the bed, rifling through a drawer or a suitcase or something, make Artem feel so exposed it’s like his skin is burning. Did he _actually_ just beg his teammate to fuck him? Is Mitch _actually_ going to do that, not just call the fucking bullshit police on Artem’s whole fucking shit and never speak to him again?

“Ok, you need to - yeah, like that.” Mitch is kneeling between his thighs, stroking one finger down Artem’s dick, watching it twitch in response, “You’re amazing, you know.”

Artem whimpers, not sure what he’s supposed to be doing, which Mitch clearly spots - “Put your hands against the headboard - I haven’t got anything to tie you up, you’re just going to have to behave.”

It’s the hottest fucking thing. Artem _writhes_ as he moves his hands up so fast he nearly hits himself in the face, bucks up against Mitch’s fingers, trying to show how much he likes it, fucking _needs_ it. Needs Mitch.

“This’ll be cold, sorry,” Mitch’s fingers have moved, trailing down below his balls - and it is cold, the slippery liquid Mitch is slicking over his crack, rubbing over his asshole. He’s fingered himself quite a lot, wanking but always done it rough, with spit, just trying to get himself off. Mitch is being gentle, reverent and it’s so sensual, just the feeling of his fingers circling where he’s going to fuck Artem, making him whimper with need.

“Please, Mitch.”

“Shh, slowly. You ever finger yourself?” One of Mitch’s fingers is pushing harder against him, then withdrawn for a second for more lube. Artem nods, mesmerised by watching Mitch drip the liquid over his hand. “Ok, good - you gotta tell me if it hurts, though.”

Artem nods again, then Mitch bends over to kiss him, one hand next to Artem’s head to prop himself, the other pushing a finger into him. It’s so soft and lubed and slick - nothing like Artem’s rougher attempts at guiltily fucking himself - he gasps into Mitch’s mouth, pushing down.

“Good boy, you’re so good, you’re doing so well,” Mitch fucks his finger in and out of Artem gently, working the lube into him and Artem’s on the brink of _something_ \- moaning against Mitch’s mouth, arching and whining. Mitch bites down on Artem’s lip in response, “Greedy. You can have more when I say.”

Mitch sounds kind of blown - breathy and turned on, “Fuck, this isn’t - it’s normally me getting fucked, y’know. But this is amazing, you’re amazing.” Mitch punctuates his last sentence by adding another finger, stretching and scissoring them inside Artem.

It’s a tight fit but _so_ wet and slick - Mitch must have used about a pint of lube, easing his fingers in so easily it’s only a few seconds for Artem to adjust, to feel himself shamefully moan - he knows he _can_ take it, fuck knows he’s never been this careful, certainly never _adoring_ like this with himself but it feels so much that it’s Mitch’s fingers inside him, _Mitch_ showering him with kisses and praise, saying how good he is, how hot he is like this.

“This is the last one, you’re doing so well.” This _is_ more than he’s ever taken, can feel himself clenching down hard as Mitch adds a third finger, his hand stilling.

“Breathe, baby - you’re so good, I can’t wait to be inside you.” Mitch kisses him and Artem can barely kiss back, he’s whining so much - the idea that this is getting Mitch off, that Mitch is hot to fuck him, is too much.

“Please,” Mitch chuckles at him, asks him what he’s asking for, “Please fuck me, Mitch.”

Mitch looks a little cynical that he’s ready but Artem’s pretty sure the world’s lube supplies have been substantially depleted by this encounter already and he’s burning up with need to see what Mitch looks like whilst he’s fucking him, repeats his begging and he doesn’t care how fucking shameless it sounds.

That seems to snap something in Mitch, instantly withdrawing his fingers and grabbing the condom packet, rolling it down his dick almost violently fast, “God, Artem. You’re gonna fucking wreck me.”

Artem doesn’t need to reply that he’s kind of hoping Mitch is gonna return the favour, watching his teammate settle over him, stroking his face with one hand while the other guides his cock to Artem’s ass. “You tell me if this hurts, yeah? I don’t want this if I hurt you.”

Artem makes some kind of garbled noise of assent, not even sure which language he’s speaking by this point. He hooks his legs round Mitch, to get a better angle and it’s ridiculous, they’re race drivers and daredevils and they’re going to have a nice, loving fuck in missionary for fuck’s sake and - then Mitch is in him and he tries not to make any embarrassing noises.

“Oh my god,” Mitch looks strained, trying to hold himself back, “Fuck, Artem - you’re so fucking good, you feel so fucking good.”

He can’t help it, he arches his back, bears down on Mitch- it’s a bit much, a bit fast and there’s a horrible burn for a second that he’s only distracted from by Mitch’s moan, “Shit- fuck. No, don’t do that, you’re gonna make me come, I wanna fuck you for more than 5 seconds.”

It’s fucking overwhelming - everything Artem hoped about Mitch fucking him, Mitch wanting him, is fucking happening right now. He tries to stop himself moving, grips his hands to the underside of the headboard.

“Good boy,” Mitch kisses him again, “I’m not gonna last long, just to warn you - kind of worked myself up before.”

“Want you to come,” Artem doesn’t manage to say the ‘in me,’ it’s just _too_ filthy, even with Mitch’s dick inside him.

“Christ, you’re fucking incredible.” Mitch rolls his hips, finally, fucking in to Artem and he sees something not totally unlike stars - like his whole perception is narrowed down to Mitch inside him.

After that it’s just an escalating rhythm, heat and sweat building everywhere, their bodies a tangled mess. Mitch bites him everywhere, over his collarbone, on his shoulders, anywhere conceivably hidden by a race suit and each thrust is Mitch _wanting_ him, praising him, telling him how much he loves fucking Artem.

Until Mitch clearly can’t take it any more, stops for a moment and wraps his hand round Artem’s dick, “This might not quite be together but, I wanna make you come, ok?”

“Please,” fuck, he’s never heard himself sound so breathy - he isn’t a breathy person, not like Mitch, all feline and sexy. Artem doesn’t have much time to think about it, Mitch’s hand suddenly tugging his dick as he carries on screwing him, slow and controlled now, Mitch biting his own lip, whimpering with the effort.

Mitch snaps first, making a choked noise and falling forwards onto Artem, his hand still moving on Artem’s dick and the _feeling_ of Mitch coming inside him starts a chain reaction. He’s never had someone else make him come before and it’s better than anything he’s ever experienced - at the point where he would’ve stopped, with himself, Mitch draws it out more, keeps fucking him through it.

They pant against each other for a long moment, Mitch staring down at him intently, grinning, “Fucking knew it, you’re a sex god.”

Artem can’t help grinning back at him, although he’s starting to become aware of some uncomfortably damp and just plain uncomfortable bits of his anatomy. Mitch seems satisfied that he’s satisfied, pulls out and rolls off him, fiddling with the condom for a second before lobbing it roughly in the direction of the bin and spooning up against him.

It’s what Artem’s starting to think of as their standard position, which probably shows how mad he’s gone. But it’s so good, Mitch wrapped around him, murmuring how great he was into his ear.

“You can tell the guys that, that’d shut them the fuck up.”


End file.
